Archive of Our Own

Centuries of change have drifted across Fódlan's vast lands, yet its most appealing treasures can be found along the outskirts of Garreg Mach University. Some streets have been frozen in time, lined with simple cottages and cobblestone walkways. Other neighborhoods in the surrounding town have taken on a more modern appearance. It isn't unusual to see a salon that shares walls with a meat market or a jewelry repair business built on top of a bakery. In Byleth’s case, she has the pleasure of living next door to the Mittelfrank Dance Company. 

Its red brick exterior and lively signage offer a welcoming touch to the quiet neighborhood. On her walks home from work, Byleth usually sees young dancers in leotards leaping across the studio, but today, the space is empty. Once she gets to her apartment building and makes it halfway up the stairs, she can see a small box on her doormat. Strange—she hasn’t ordered anything lately. More surprising is that the address on the label is for the dance company.

Accidents happen, but she can’t help but feel annoyed. Who could mix up the buildings when they look nothing alike? Still, leaving it for someone else to claim would be wrong, and at least the box isn’t a heavy lift. 

She reluctantly heads back downstairs, tossing her teal hair back from the early spring winds. The studio doors open to a hallway lined with photos of couples at dance competitions. They’re in intimate poses, and most of the women’s arms are pointed to the sky with their glistening legs peeking out of their dresses. Byleth passes a tall display case holding gold and silver trophies, medals, and framed certificates with various names. To her right is the empty studio, a wide room with light wooden floors and a long mirror across one wall. Then she wanders into a small lobby that resembles the waiting room in a doctor’s office. She hears shuffling behind the closed partition, along with someone humming a song.

“Hello?”

The partition slides open. A wide-eyed woman with a light brown bob and a striking beauty mark on her cheek appears. She looks startled but quickly relaxes her arched brows. “Sorry about that. Are you signing up for a class?”

“Uh, no. I live next door and this package got delivered to me.”

The moment Byleth puts it on the counter, the woman’s hands fly to her open mouth. “Heavens. We’ve been waiting for this to come since last week. I was about to call the courier and give them a piece of my mind.” She grabs the package and turns to the open door behind her. “Ferdinand! The damned jazz pants are finally here.”

A tall man leans against the doorframe. His sleek red locks cascade past his shoulders and look silky to the touch. He splits a curious look between Byleth and the box, then frowns at the woman. “Manuela, please watch your language around the guests.”

“You would have heard worse if these never came,” she grumbles, stabbing the packing tape with a box cutter.

Ferdinand glances at Byleth again, evidently embarrassed. “My apologies. Our youth class has a jazz dance recital this weekend. We were worried their outfits wouldn’t come on time.”

Byleth is unsure of what else to say, but it feels like she’s intruded long enough. “Glad I could help,” she half-heartedly mumbles.

“Wait!” Ferdinand calls with a raised hand. “We must thank you for your kindness.”

“Oh, you don’t need to–”

“Would you be interested in taking a class? We offer one free trial lesson for our multi-week classes.” He walks around to the front of the lobby and hands her a pamphlet from the counter. “Our Mixed Ballroom class for beginners is starting two weeks from today. We have plenty of spots available and you don’t need a partner to sign up.” 

“Or you can take private lessons if you do have special someone in your life,” Manuela grins.

Byleth reluctantly looks down at the posed couple on the pamphlet, unable to picture herself in a similar embrace. “I’m not a dancer.”

“There’s no need to be! I assure you’ll be in good hands with us.”

With his dazzling smile and impassioned pleas, he’s almost too nice to say no to. “I’ll think about it,” she nervously replies.

“Wonderful. And thank you again, neighbor.”

“We hope to see you soon, dear!” Manuela calls, still holding the box cutter as she waves goodbye.

* 

The next evening, Byleth shows the pamphlet to Sylvain and Mercedes during dinner. Their new apartment has a spacious kitchen that motivates them to cook for their friends more often, but mostly Byleth thanks to her persuasion. She's been lucky enough to be the first taste taster for Sylvain’s new seafood recipes and each batch of Mercedes’ sweet treats.

“Well, at least it’s not a scam,” Sylvain says, skimming the pamphlet's back pages. “Or wait. Are you asking one of us to be your partner?”

He’s being facetious but Byleth still winces from the ache in her stomach. Although she can take the classes alone, the thought of holding hands and swaying with a stranger makes her want to crawl into a hole.

“It could be a chance for you to meet someone new in class,” Mercedes says, pouring her another glass of wine. “Or it could be a nice change to your routine.”

Byleth bristles, feeling her defenses steeling. “My routine is just fine.” She wakes up by six a.m. to blend her breakfast smoothies for a fresh start to the day. She edits academic journals and only goes into the office once a week, giving her the flexibility to run errands. She gets her weekly exercise from walks in the park with Mercedes. And she isn’t entirely alone—she lives with a Faerghan forest cat who leaves her hair on everything she pounces on. Suddenly, the reality of becoming a creature of habit hits her hard. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have something new to keep her occupied.

“I don’t want to do it by myself,” she admits. It’s bad enough relying on a couple to help her out, but it feels worse to tug them into their single friend’s antics.

“I’m down,” Sylvain declares, never one to turn down an adventure.

Mercedes grins from ear to ear, too. “I suppose it’s time to start shaking our hips,” she giggles.

Week 1
And finally, it seems my lonely days are through

— 

Two Wednesdays later at six-thirty, Sylvain leads the way inside the dance studio, craning his head as they pass by the shiny display case of impressive awards. “Let’s hope our names will be on our own trophies soon,” he brags.

Byleth refrains from rolling her eyes. Talk about wishful thinking. They enter the main studio, greeted by their reflections in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Ferdinand stands by the window speaking between two women matching in brightly patterned asymmetrical skirts. They make Byleth feel underdressed in her plain workout leggings, though the pamphlet said to wear light and comfy clothing. Across the room, Manuela is behind a fold-out table setting down markers and name tags. “Welcome back, dear!" she calls to Byleth. "I see you’ve brought friends.”

Before she registered for the class, Byleth went down a researching rabbit hole just to be on the safe side. She read a few articles about Manuela Casagranda, a professional International Ballroom dancer, singer, and theater actress. She first crossed paths with Ferdinand von Aegir in Enbarr when his performing arts troupe toured with her opera company. Together, they have consistently ranked in the top spots of prestigious dance competitions around the world. Byleth should be relieved to be in good, professional hands, but she’s already crumbling from being in the same room as true dance legends.

The young woman with maroon hair joins them to fill out a name tag, introducing herself as Petra. “That is my Dorothea,” she says, pointing to her partner as her voice drips with adoration. “We are taking private lessons with Ferdinand for our wedding, but she wanted to take this class to see Manuela again. She was her singing mentor in Enbarr.” 

“How sweet,” Mercedes gushes, then turns to Byleth. “We’re here to give her moral support.”

“Specifically to help her find the person of her dreams,” Sylvain tosses in.

“Not true,” Byleth snaps.

He feigns offense by clutching his chest. “So negative! You never know what the future will bring.”

They all gather in the middle of the room, listening to Dorothea and Ferdinand talk about their last production in Enbarr. Byleth hoped the class would be fuller, only so she could get away with hiding in the back. She seemingly gets her wish five minutes before class begins when the door opens again. But only two more people step inside, scanning the group and quickly looking disappointed. 

“I bet you he’s going to be late,” says the young woman with the high pink ponytail. 

The tall man in the lavender cashmere sweater sneers at his wristwatch. “I warned you not to put too much faith in him.”

They soon introduce themselves as Lorenz and Hilda, two grad students at Garreg Mach. Any mention of the school is the fastest way to find common ground with a stranger—just about every young person in town is a current student or graduate, or in Byleth’s case, a former faculty member. She prepares to add to the small talk when Manuela steps in front of the mirror to address the class.

“It’s seven on the dot, so let’s get started. Welcome to Mixed Ballroom for Beginners! Ferdinand and I will be your instructors for the next eight weeks. You’re going to learn four types of ballroom dances, two rhythmic and two smooth. Here is a harsh truth: You will start off terribly. You’re going to sweat a lot. You’ll be sore every day. You’ll probably hate your partner for dragging you into this. But the only way you’ll get better is if you let yourself have fun. If you’re a perfectionist who can’t accept that, the door is right over there.”

Everyone chuckles, but with eerie timing, the door creaks open. A young man in a rust-yellow hoodie stumbles inside, lugging a backpack on one shoulder. His keen smile awakens something long forgotten inside of Byleth, spreading a harsh burn throughout her body. With him, the class is at eight students. 

An even number for pairing up.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says to Manuela, all eagerness and no remorse.

“That’s all right, dear. Fill out a name tag and come join us. Now, let’s all stand single file.”

Tension ripples through Byleth, locking her in place. And because she can’t move, she ends up next to the latecomer who stands on her right. The name on his tag matches the name whirling in her mind: Claude.

“Long time, no see,” he whispers, gesturing a salute from his temple.

No words can convey her blend of emotions. Shock outweighs relief, but anxiety puts a damper on her happiness. All she can muster is a shy smile in his direction.

“We’re going to learn the basic Samba steps tonight,” Manuela says. “I’ll show you the footwork without music first.” She rolls her shoulders back and stands upright with her hands on her hips. Then she takes a small step back with her right foot, a smaller step forward with her left foot, and shifts her right foot forward to close the gap. The counts come next: Right foot back on one, left foot forward on two, right foot closes on three. “Easy, right? Now you try.”

The room fills with the sound of feet tapping against hardwood. Through the mirror, they look like a line of dance cadets in training. Byleth tries to focus on the counts, occasionally glancing down at her feet or her awkward reflection. Watching herself means catching a glimpse of Claude, too—and his eyes are already on her. 

After a few minutes of shuffling, Manuela moves onto the hips. “You simply cannot dance without them,” she says with a sultry giggle. Her eyes flutter shut as she hangs her arms outwards and demonstrates a dramatic figure-eight swivel. Then she adds in the Samba footwork, gradually picking up the pace. The fringe on her dress moves as if it’s caught in a gust of wind. Everyone in the room falls into a silent trance, caught up in the magic of her moves. How can they be expected to copy a superstar?

They spread out a bit to practice their swivels. Apparently, Byleth’s idea of dancing is flinging her body from side to side. She’s supposed to look seductive, not like she’s about to jump in a mosh pit. Adding the footwork creates a recipe for disaster, fully throwing her off-beat. “Less thinking, more feeling,” Manuela calls from the back of the room. It’d be less embarrassing if she actually called out Byleth by name. But she repeats the advice in her mind like a mantra, relaxing her upper body to let her hips roll on their own. She nervously looks at Claude from her peripherals. He has the moves down again. And he’s staring at her, again.

“Guessing you don’t move your hips much?” he casually asks.

She has no idea how to respond to that. 

Next, Manuela and Ferdinand demonstrate the steps in a paired dance. They face each other in what they call open position, standing slightly apart. As the leader, Ferdinand guides them forward, beginning the dance with his left foot. They build up into fiercer steps, bouncing on their feet and rolling their hips. Byleth catches herself smiling, enchanted by their infectious energy. They make intimacy look effortless and fun—and learning something new is supposed to be fun.

“Now that we’ve worked up a sweat, let’s get the music going,” Manuela says. “Partner up!”

When she steps away from the mirror, Byleth is left looking at her sheepish reflection. But Claude is still at her side—still staring, still eager and striking.

“Shall we dance?” he asks.

The others are already in open position, but Byleth hesitates to get closer, almost like she needs Claude’s permission to touch him. He offers to be the leader, a wise decision she doesn’t refute. She holds the top of his bicep while he rests his hand in the middle of her spine. Then she nestles her thumb into the valley between his thumb and forefinger, staring down at his color-block sneakers and begging herself to breathe. 

“Be confident, dear,” Manuela says behind her, lifting her chin with both hands. “The best dancers never take their eyes off their partner.” 

Heat surges to her cheeks, worsening as Claude starts shaking from laughter. “Look at you already causing trouble.”

All of it is troubling. How is she supposed to keep her composure around the only person who could draw every breath out of her? How can she stand tall as his eyes glimmer like gemstones? A slew of questions for him flood her mind: How long have you been back in Fódlan? Why are you taking this class? And how in Sothis’ name did you manage to get more handsome? Instead, she utters a fact that is easy to say: “It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise. Is it your first time dancing?”

She nods, tensing once festive Brigidian music blares from the speakers. Manuela counts them off with a 5-6-7-8—no turning back now—and then they’re on their own. Claude leads at a steady pace, fluid and focused and fully comfortable. On the contrary, Byleth tenses every time she steps back too early, blurting out apology after apology when she stomps on his nice shoes.

“No need to be sorry,” he gently chuckles. “You’re doing great.” 

He doesn’t need to patronize her, though she can’t deny his patience is reassuring. The more they move, the clearer her mind becomes. And with less to think about, she can reflect on the beginning.

Last year, she was the sole researcher in the Department of Conflict Studies at Garreg Mach. When enrollment numbers grew, Seteth decided to hire a graduate intern to help her analyze war records and the library archives on military history. Claude came in like a hurricane, riding on the winds of change. Within his first week, he suggested researching lesser-known figures of imperial Fódlan to put in future lesson plans. Byleth was intrigued; Seteth, on the other hand, was less receptive. But to Claude’s ears, a ‘no’ was a resounding ‘yes.’ He pulled research from books that weren’t pre-approved by the department and sought out perspectives from other countries to eliminate bias. Once, he showed Byleth a loophole to requesting buried information about the church without tipping off Seteth, a risk she was too scared to take again. When they pulled all-nighters in the library, he even taught her how to make a napping spot between the bookcases. There was no end to his hunger for knowledge, a flaw that doubled as his finest quality. When Byleth looked at him, she saw a man amazed by what the world had to offer—and when he looked at her, she felt like she could roam the world with him.

Before the spring semester ended, he asked to speak with her alone. His father was sick, so he needed to go back to Almyra for a while. It sounded too personal to push for more details, but she told him to reach out if he needed anything. A few days later, his messy desk was spotless. She thought of him in the days that followed, usually as she drifted to sleep. When his name appeared in her inbox a month later, she took twice as long to reply, a regret that still flows in her veins. When he didn’t respond, she was certain it was too late. 

Yet here he is beaming like a shard of sunlight, dancing with her as she bruises his toes.

After forty-five minutes of shuffling, Manuela gives the class a much-needed break. Everyone sits at the tables close to the window but Byleth rests against the wall with Claude, telling him about the good deed that led her to signing up for the class. “Isn’t it funny how the smallest decisions can change your life in an instant?” he says with a musing smile.

He used to say similarly poetic things that made her heart swell, but she keeps her composure. “When did you move back?”

“Two months ago. I wanted to come back in time to reenroll at Garreg Mach. I was at the library and lost track of time, hence the late arrival.” He shuts his eyes as he drinks from his steel water bottle. Byleth lets her eyes linger on the base of his throat, catching herself before he speaks again. “I saw good ol’ Seteth on my first day back. He said you weren’t his researcher anymore?”

“I’m an editor at an academic publishing house now.”

“Ah, so you still can’t keep your nose out of a book.” 

How rich coming from him. Over his shoulder, she spots Lorenz and Hilda walking over, matching in their judgmental expressions. “Better late than never, I suppose,” Lorenz mutters.

“Yeah, Claude. How could you be late for something that was your idea?”

“Hey, I might be a lot of things, but I’m a man who keeps my word.” He drapes an arm over Hilda’s shoulders, to which she rolls her eyes. “She let me sleep on her couch for a few weeks, so I promised I’d take this class with her to pay her back,” he explains to Byleth. “Lorenz just tagged along to be all noble on the dancefloor.” 

Byleth smiles as the three of them banter. She often worried that long hours of researching stopped him from having a social life. It's good to know he can still easily adapt and make connections in a flash.

“You came here with your friends, right?” he asks Byleth. “I’d love to meet them.”

She looks over at Mercedes and Sylvain, feeling oddly reluctant to say yes. But it's clear Claude wants to be in her world. She has seven more weeks to settle into his world, too.

Week 2
Put your loving hand out, baby

—

Deadlines have an aggravating way of sneaking up on Byleth. The edits for the manuscript she’s been working on all month is due at the end of the day, only a couple of hours before the next ballroom lesson. She typically has less distractions during her in-office days, but nine thousand words about archaeological discoveries on the Duscur Peninsula can’t prevent her from anticipating another night in Claude’s arms.

The image has lived in the forefront of her mind for the past week, and for better or worse. Time hadn’t weathered away his friendliness, nor his good looks. But she couldn’t become enchanted without being reminded of how they left things—mostly, how she left behind the chance for something more. She looks away from her screen, reaching across the desk for her phone. The worst habits to break are the ones that cause us the deepest pain, yet she succumbs and pulls up the email from last year’s Guardian Moon. 

Byleth,

I’m sorry I had to leave on such short notice. I should have told you what was going on. Life can come at us fast. As long as we remember what matters most, we won’t be broken.

I don’t plan to be away forever. We still have too many mysteries to dig through. But if you’re ever on this side of the border, I’ll take you to my hometown. Be prepared to stuff your face because there are some truly tasty dishes you can’t find in Fódlan.  

Thank you. For everything. I know in my heart that we’ll meet again.

Claude

A mountain of excuses kept her from replying. She didn’t want to impose during a sensitive time. They were nothing more than colleagues. All the hours they spent together weren’t a substitute for intimacy. She had a job to do back then, and it wasn’t supposed to involve getting lost in his gorgeous eyes. Plus, she was probably in a long line of people who were under his spell. But she eventually overcame the doubt to silence her restless spirit. She felt like a fool as the days passed on, wondering if he'd given up before she willed herself to try.

Yet nothing could unbind her from the certainty he claimed to hold. To see it through, she had to play the waiting game a little longer. Could it finally be coming to an end?

*

The song Manuela plays in class that evening has a doo-wop twist, vastly different from the bouncing percussion of Brigidian music. Byleth used to hear it on her parents’ favorite oldies radio station when she was a child. To think she’d be listening to it again in the arms of the only person to set her aflame.

The class learns the stationery Samba walk, practicing underarm turns and how to cross their feet in whisks. The hip-heavy side steps called voltas throw Byleth off-balance with her footwork, but Claude is there to get her back on track, no rush in leading the way. So far, she hasn’t stomped on his feet, and she’s gotten better at keeping count with the music. Still, she feels inexperienced compared to the others. She wishes she could be like Petra and exude passion from head to toe or be brave enough to giggle at her mistakes like Mercedes does every five minutes.

“I guess I’m not that interesting to you,” she hears Claude say.

“What?”

“You won’t look me in the eye. Do you need another reminder from Manuela?”

She feels a pang of guilt. Maybe she has been a neglectful partner. “I’m just nervous.”

“I’ve got you,” he assures, and his sincerity makes her chest swell. “Just follow my lead and have a good time.”

Something in her throat loosens with relief. There’s no need to worry when he is still Claude, the same man who invaded her personal space when he read her notes over her shoulder or reached above her to grab a book off a shelf.

And the man who deserved better than a late reply.

“I want to know more about you,” he softly says, leading them into a left whisk.

Startled, Byleth almost steps with the wrong foot first. “Like what?”

“How have you been? What holds your interest these days?”

Another thing that hasn’t changed: His affinity for making conversation during inopportune times. “Well… I adopted a cat last year. Her name’s Sothis.”

He reacts with an adorable look of surprise. “I thought your favorite divine being was Cethleann.” 

Byleth did enjoy reading records about the young, sprightly saint. But she explains how her Sothis' tan and white coat is thick and poofy like the real goddess' hair. Also having fierce green eyes in common sealed the deal. “You just have to see it to believe it, I guess,” she chuckles.

“Did you find her at Garreg Mach? I remember you liked feeding the strays outside of the dining hall.”

Byleth blinks, astonished that such a small fact could take up space in his mind. “No. But you remember that?”

He grins as he leads her into an underarm turn. “All of your interests interested me, too.”

When class ends, everyone seems to feel the post-Samba burn. Byleth is thankful she brought a hair tie to pull her dewy locks back with. “My thighs are on fire,” Hilda gripes as they walk through the lobby.

“That just shows how hard you worked!” Mercedes encourages like the perpetual optimist she is.

“I say we reward ourselves with a meal,” Sylvain avidly suggests. “There’s a Dagdan noodle house down the street. Who’s hungry?”

Everyone murmurs in agreement except for Byleth. Between staying late at the office to finish editing the manuscript and dancing for an hour and a half, all she cares about is crawling into bed. “Um, I can’t tonight.”

Sylvain’s brows furrow with confusion. “What do you mean you can’t? You never turn down noodles.”

Now everyone is staring at her like she’s committed a terrible crime, including Claude. Rather than imagining herself snapping Sylvain in half, she explains her long day. “And I didn’t have time to leave dinner for Sothis. I’m sure she’s fuming already.” 

“I see. She sounds punctual,” Claude says. 

More like a ticking time bomb. Once, she hissed at Byleth for daring to feed her ten minutes late. “Next time though,” she offers.

“Is that a promise?”

The slant to his smile makes her waver. She almost forgets they have an audience until she notices Sylvain nudging Mercedes, wiggling his brows with that stupidly sly smile of his. “See you all next week,” she says, breaking away first.

She gets to the building stoop as they cross the street, predicting how their night will go with Claude in tow. He’ll play his usual game of a million questions, charming everyone into confessing at least one secret. Unlike her, they won’t leave him waiting for a response. 

Inside the apartment, Sothis is at the top of her climbing tree, scolding Byleth with her narrowed eyes. “I know, I know,” she sighs. The cat follows her to the kitchen and sits in front of her empty bowl, curtly meowing when Byleth picks it up. She opens a can of chicken and seafood mix for the drama queen, not sure of what to eat for herself. Nothing in the fridge looks particularly delectable, and it doesn’t help that the dreadful feeling in her gut is gnawing away at her appetite. 

She sits at the dining table, teetering towards that old, painful habit. She finds Claude's bookmarked email in her phone, but scrolls down to her late reply.

Hi Claude,

I’m sorry for not getting back to you sooner. I hope all is well with your family.

Garreg Mach feels different without you. But please remember to take care of yourself. I’m here for anything you need.

Byleth

Her eyes sting. For once, she’s grateful for being too drained to let the sadness seep through. She searches for the noodle house online, tapping the button to place an order for delivery.

Week 3
Goddamn, you got me in love again

—

The following week, it’s time to learn the Mambo. Ferdinand and Manuela proudly share their story of taking home the top prize in an international Mambo competition in Sreng, a high honor to win in the dance’s country of origin. The footwork begins on the second beat and the lower arm placements allow for a greater freedom of movement in open position. As always, eye contact remains key—and it can’t be avoided with Claude von Riegan.

“You’re getting better every week,” he tells Byleth, watchful eyes softening.

He’s stellar compared to her, but she’ll take the compliment. “You aren’t bad, either.”

“Bad? Several people can verify I’m a treasure on the dancefloor. Most of them are old ladies with two left feet, but the point still stands.” 

Snorting almost breaks her rhythm, a reminder of how good it feels to laugh around him. They follow the beat of the song, carried by lively trumpets, conga drums, and a passionate contralto vocalist. Fast piano kicks in during the instrumental break, a chance for Claude to guide Byleth into the cross-body lead. Although she misses the cue to rock-step backward and twirl into the forward turn, he’s ready to catch her in the sweetheart position, swaying with her from right to left with that reliable smile.

By the end of class, everyone is out of breath, dabbing the sweat off their foreheads. “One of the most important elements of ballroom dancing is chemistry,” Ferdinand says. “If you don’t know your partners very well yet, take the chance to acquaint yourselves outside of these walls.”

“Or find an opportunity to grow closer,” Manuela sensuously adds, batting her lashes.

Byleth feels more comfortable around Claude, so maybe the advice doesn’t apply to them. But as they chat on their way out, Sylvain squeezes between them, baring the grin that’s equivalent to a thorn in her side. “So who’s up for getting acquainted tonight?”

“I know you well enough,” Byleth grumbles, tossing his bulky arm off of her. 

“Ah, you’re no fun. How about it, Claude? There’s a pub on the east side where drinks are half off tonight.”

“I’ll take you up on that soon. Byleth and I already have plans.”

They do? It seems Sylvain shares the same question with his raised brows. “In that case, pardon my intrusion,” he slyly replies, winking at Byleth before he catches up with Mercedes. She makes a mental note to send him a very colorful text later.

“Sorry to put you on the spot,” Claude says, palming the back of his neck. “But to be fair, you did ditch me last week to feed your cat.”

Luckily, she learned her lesson and made a bowl for her little gremlin before coming to class. “It’s fine. I…” She swallows the last of her nerves. “I’ve been wanting to see you, too.”

“Are you thirsty? We can go to the Almyran café by the train station.”

It sounds wonderful. First, she hops into the bathroom to freshen up. She had a feeling he would pester her to reschedule—or more accurately, she was bound to the wild hope that he would—so she packed a spare shirt and lavender-scented body mist in her bag. She touches up her eyeliner, then takes deep breaths as she rolls her stiff shoulders. It won’t be any different from those days in the library: staring across a table, hands fidgeting, craving more with every ache.

The café is a few blocks south of the neighborhood. They walk alongside the street lamps lining the near empty sidewalk for about ten minutes, and then the lights inside of Eastern Winds bring a spark to the dimly lit corner. Last year, Byleth had seen flyers advertising its grand opening around Garreg Mach, and the hanging ivy plants above the entrance look just as marvelous in person. Inside, she’s immediately drawn to the gold-plated girih floor tiles and pendant light shades. One wall has a large fixture that resembles an altar, with a sign that reads The peace your soul deserves. There are a variety of pastries in the display cases that Byleth recognizes, like kanafeh cheesecake and qatayef. 

“It’s owned by Almyrans but they serve other eastern dishes,” Claude explains. “I recommend the house latte, though you’ll probably be up all night.”

“I trust your judgment,” she says with a smile.

He makes friendly conversation in Almyran with the barista, who is kind enough to demonstrate to how make tulip-shaped art in their latte foams. Once they choose a table by the window, she senses Claude’s curious eyes roaming across her face. 

“I meant to tell you I was back in town,” he says, “but everything’s been pretty hectic between school and family. The ballroom lessons are keeping me twice as busy now, but they’re a nice way to let loose, too.”

“It’s okay. You’re still settling in.” She can’t help but wonder if he actually enjoys being busy. The work seemed to be neverending for him at Garreg Mach, but he pushed through every day with an easy smile. “How is your family doing?”

“Still a pain in my neck,” he laughs, resting his elbows on the table. “But my dad’s doing a lot better.”

“Can I ask how he got sick?” Byleth softly asks, hoping she hasn’t stepped out of line.

“Polymyositis, a big word for muscle weakness. What I didn’t mention was that my siblings were fighting with my mom over the best way to care for him.”

The news is a shock. Aside from his parents and a grandfather in Derdriu, he never spoke of other relatives. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

“They’ve never had much of a relationship with her,” he explains with a wry laugh. “She married my dad before he introduced her to them. Once I came along, I was just another change they didn’t have much time to adjust to. There was a lot of yelling and name-calling in our house. Naturally, I became the mediator.”

Now it becomes clear to Byleth why he admired leaders who chose paths with the least amount of conflict. They weren’t just hidden figures in textbooks. They possessed the morals he wanted to embody.

“Anyway, all the arguing was for nothing because my dad made a quick recovery. His medication worked right away and now he’s in physical therapy every week. But the whole thing taught me how we can’t take our time together for granted. Instead of resenting each other, we needed to build the relationships we should have had from the start. I stuck around so we could do just that.”

His smile dwindles like he isn’t convinced by his own words. All Byleth wants to do is reach for his hand. “How else did you spend your time there?”

“My brother and I helped our dad with his business. Then I helped my sister plan the reception for her wedding. That’s where I danced with all the old ladies.” His eyes lose their luster as he looks out the window. “I even made a little time for romance.”

A boulder drops to the pit of Byleth’s stomach. It sounds like a logical reason to not reply to her email. “Was it serious?”

“Not serious enough, apparently. They didn’t want to come back to Fódlan with me.” He takes a long sip from his cup, a sign the discussion has run its course. “What about you? I’m sure you make heads turn everywhere you go.”

“Sylvain set me up with one of his friends last year, but they weren’t a good fit.” In all honesty, she spent the entire date waiting to be humored or to learn something new—things that Claude could do in the blink of an eye. “Besides, I have Sothis. She’s a handful already.”

“Yeah. Sounds like I need her permission to take you out.”

He winks as he takes another drink and Byleth can’t stop her heart from fluttering. Speaking freely—and staring too long—has brought the last of her walls down. “I had a hard time after you left,” she slowly admits. 

His face tightens with concern as he peers up. 

“I could handle working night after night until the sun came up. But I really missed having someone else to talk to.” 

They spent hours reading about the darkest parts of Fódlan’s history, including the discrimination against his own country. The small talk she usually hated ended up becoming a healthy distraction, preventing her from taking the work home. Without someone to lean on, she felt like she could crumble at any moment.

“And I’m sorry about the late email,” she hesitates to say, balling her fist on the table. “There was so much more I wanted to tell you, but… I’ve just never been the best at expressing myself.”

“I know what you mean. Sometimes it’s easier to put on a brave face and keep everything bottled up.” To her surprise, he reaches across the table and opens her hand, linking her to something precious in his touch. “But you can’t hide when we’re dancing. I need your eyes on me.”

They will be. She hopes her pinkening cheeks are enough proof of a promise.

Week 4
You got what it takes to set me free / You could mean everything to me

—

The second week of learning Mambo is all about perfecting the shoulder check. The leader rocks the follower into a step-twirl combo, and the follower finishes the move with a smooth arm flourish to the sky. Byleth finds it more grueling than the quick footwork, only because it puts her upper arm strength to the test.

Claude is patient through the moves, holding her through every step without tearing his eyes from hers. One corner of his mouth twitches in amusement when she struggles with another arm point, but something feels off about his smooth-talking demeanor in general. “You’re quiet,” she says.

“Maybe the way you move has left me speechless.”

Heat pools at her neck, but he twirls her before she can quip back. What a shame it would be if she crushed his foot. He pulls her into the sweetheart position, rocking behind her for four steady, quiet counts. When they’re face to face again, his eyes are ripe with expectation.

“So you know how you brought up the email the other night?”

Byleth cautiously nods. 

“I should be the one saying sorry for it.”

“Why would you?”

“For holding back.”

Byleth becomes more aware of their surroundings, wondering if the others can hear them over the soft music and its enticing guitars. She senses how Claude’s hands tighten around hers, feels her throat go dry when his biceps flex underneath his henley shirt. Is it wrong that she quite likes him in a nervous state?

“I came to Garreg Mach to get away from the chaos at home,” he says above a whisper. “I made a lot of friends, but I still had those days when I felt lonelier than ever. All of that changed when I started working with you.” 

Turning back for a side step, Byleth stares at him in awe.

“You reminded me to stay confident in my ideas. You pulled me out of my head when I got caught up in the ‘what ifs.’ I know I was just your assistant, but… I really felt like I could do anything as long as I had you.”

They change hands and rock back into the basic steps. She’d obviously hoped that she meant something to him, but it feels surreal to think she could be a catalyst for change.

“There are some things we deserve to hear in person,” he says, hair falling in his eyes as he looks away. “I needed time to make sure I meant every single word. And then I let too much of it slip away.”

It’s clear they had the best intentions in withholding the truth from each other. Maybe the best way—the only way—to make amends is to be honest in the moment. “You weren’t just my assistant.” There’s no going back from this point, Byleth thinks, freeing her doubts to scatter. “You had so many dreams and goals to achieve and I… I didn’t want to be a distraction.”

They gradually slow down, trading silent yet poignant looks. Byleth expects Manuela to snap at them for falling off-tempo, but nothing matters except for the only face worth her attention.

“Maybe those mysteries we talked about were deep inside of us all along,” Claude says, revealing that easy smile. “Partners can’t get properly acquainted without spilling a secret.”

Byleth snorts. “You’re taking these lessons very seriously.”

“What can I say? I’m devoted to the cause.”

Across the room, Ferdinand counts the class off for another round of shoulder checks. Claude leads Byleth through the open break, gaze warm and intent as she twirls beneath his arm. She feels like she could soar to new heights, guaranteed to have a soft landing in his arms. Then Manuela slowly walks by, observing their dance with a subtle smile. A week ago, Byleth would have wavered under her perceptive eyes, but promising not to hide anymore has turned out to be quite thrilling.

“Do you think we’re in trouble?” Claude whispers.

Byleth shrugs and dances on. “Just another mystery to solve.”

Week 5
I’m sensin’ heavenly tension / You’re sendin’ that type of message

—

“The Morfisian Tango is the dance of desire,” Ferdinand states at the top of the next class, settling into closed position with Manuela. With their lips on the cusp of touching, they look like lovers on the cover of a steamy romance book, tangled in a sultry embrace that makes Byleth’s stomach do a somersault. 

“Why do I feel like we’re intruding?” Claude murmurs in her ear.

Invasion of privacy or not, the class is still expected to follow their lead. Everyone takes position, settling chest to chest. Claude rests his hand on Byleth’s ribs as she angles her face toward his. The world goes quiet as they breathe together, seeking repose between their bodies. No one needs to remind her to stare into his eyes.

Who in their right mind would turn away from such a glorious sight?

“This dance is intense and magnetic,” Manuela says, inspecting everyone’s poses. “You must be willing to surrender to your partner.” She stops to move Byleth’s hand against the middle of Claude’s spine. “Prove that you belong to them and them only.” 

His intrigued grin swiftly makes an appearance. “Hear that? You have to belong to me.”

If Byleth’s heart pounds any faster, she might combust. She surrendered to him long ago, but the past week has solidified each and every way he holds her captive. They’ve exchanged paragraphs of texts about films to watch and playfully argued about his course load at school (“taking six classes in one semester is not insane,” he would maintain). His voice even carries through the brief messages wishing her to have a good day. Finally, she can rejoice in knowing it no longer hurts to read his words on a screen. They spill like honey from his lips, and she can hardly wait for another taste.

In the basic Tango steps, the dancers’ toes touch the ground before their heels do. When they side-step, their feet essentially glide across the floor as slowly as their hip swivels and turns. To get into position, the leader must sweep their fingers down the follower’s arm to take their hand, and it feels like crackles of lightning along Byleth’s skin. She allows her gaze to briefly drift to Claude’s lips and she hopes he can read the burning question in her eyes: Do you belong to me, too?

She manages to survive the hour and a half of desire, though freshening up afterward can’t seem to cure her flushed skin. But the flames douse instantaneously upon walking out to find Sylvain chatting with Claude in the lobby.

“We were talking about hitting the clubs on Friday night,” Sylvain says as she walks over. “Are you in?”

She gives him a skeptical look. They’ve been friends long enough for him to know she is the complete opposite of a clubber. 

“Or we could try the lounge on Macuil Street instead,” Claude proposes, keeping his eyes on Byleth. “We’ll probably have better luck getting a table.”

Calling it a lounge is a bit misleading. The place is relatively calm enough throughout the week that you don’t have to shout your way through conversations. But on the weekends, people swarm in for the themed music nights like disco and hip-hop. Byleth doesn’t mind being adventurous, but stepping out of her comfort zone entirely would be like diving headfirst into the ocean.

“I’ll let you two decide,” Sylvain says, halfway out the door. “Just let me know where the party is!”

Byleth stops herself from grimacing while Claude flashes a lopsided smile. “The second he said ‘club,’ your face cracked like an egg.”

“You can see right through me,” she lightly laughs.

“I’ll go if you go, too. Not a bad offer to refuse, right?”

Twiddling her fingers, Manuela’s voice echoes in her head: The only way you’ll get better is if you let yourself have fun. And fun is something that Claude can guarantee. “I’ll go.”

By the next day, doubt comes back to haunt her. She vents about her dilemma to Mercedes on the train for their morning commute. Byleth has always relied on her to be her anchor in group outings, but she says she and her brother are visiting their mom on Friday and Saturday.

“Can’t you reschedule?” Byleth whines.

Mercedes returns a placating smile, her polite way of saying no. “You can handle yourself without me. Besides, all of Claude’s attention will be on you.”

Byleth frowns, partially from the coffee fumes and body odor wafting through the train car. “Do you really think I can try again?”

“You won’t know until you seize the moment,” Mercedes says. “And if things don’t go as planned, Sylvain will be there to save the day.” 

Right, Byleth thinks. A true friend is bound to save her from careening into the deep end.

*

She wastes the early hours of Friday night standing in her closet, uncertain of what to wear. Sighing, she decides on a tube top layered with a long-sleeved fishnet top. She has to jump to squeeze into the faux leather leggings she hasn’t worn in months, but the struggle is worth it to see how they accentuate her small curves. She dabs a layer of silver glitter over her smoky eyeshadow, a “sexy” makeup tip courtesy of Mercedes. Then she reaches into both tops to adjust her squished cleavage when she makes eye contact with Sothis watching at her feet. Half embarrassed, Byleth presses a kiss atop her fluffy head and sighs. “How are we going to do this?”

Sothis’ clipped meow translates to, “You’re on your own.”

She throws her leather jacket on before she can talk herself into staying home, then hustles to the train station. It takes three stops to get to Macuil Street, the heart of the nightlife district. She makes her way down the crowded sidewalk until she sees the lounge. People are already packed into booths and tugging each other towards the dancefloor. To her left, Byleth quickly spots Hilda at a table, who squeezes her like they haven’t seen each other in years. Dorothea and Petra wave from the end of the table and Lorenz stands up to kindly offer his chair. His cologne tickles her senses with crisp and opulent notes. She barely knows him, but expensive taste feels on brand for him.

“May I buy you a drink?” he asks.

“Hey, that’s my line,” Claude interrupts, approaching from behind. And it’s a miracle Byleth doesn’t tumble to her knees. Dressed in champagne gold, his rolled-up shirt sleeves and the three open buttons below his collar reveal his glowing skin. The dapper look extends down to his dark slacks, which are particularly firm around his thighs. As she drags her eyes back to his, she finds a message in his damnable, tight-lipped grin.

That yes, he knows exactly what he’s doing to her.

She gravitates to him without a word, letting her own cagey smile do the talking. His hand lingers on the small of her back as she follows him to the bar. Amidst the bustling bodies, it’s impossible to look away from him and the shape of his mouth as he speaks to the bartender, how his slim fingers wrap around the bills he slides across the bartop. The trance breaks when he hands her a glass, the grapefruit juice and vodka cocktail she barely recalls ordering. 

“All good?” he asks over the music.

Nodding, she takes a much-needed sip. The lemon tang clashes with the alcohol, warming her from the inside. She shrugs her jacket off at the table, noticing how the lounge lights have painted her pale skin in a hazy purple glow. People at nearby tables are getting handsy with each other and unleashing drunken howls. Seeing others make a fool of themselves only reminds Byleth of how much she treasures peace and quiet.

Claude shifts closer to her, resting his arm over the back of her chair. “Let me guess: You’re not comfortable in noisy places.”

She turns to him, pulling her lips from her straw. “Is it that obvious?”

“I get it. I’m the same way.”

“Bullshit,” she scoffs.

“I’m serious! Why do you think I said I’d go if you went?”

Because she foolishly thought it was an invitation. But she feels a thrum of delight at the idea of motivating him, emboldened to show it with a daring smirk. “I’m glad you thought of me.”

He admires her from behind his gin cocktail, amusement and intent shining through his dark lashes. “It’s not like it takes much.”

A fiery spark sets off in her core, but her concentration breaks as everyone comes together to toast their shot glasses. The booming R&B music transitions into another mid-tempo song with breathy vocals. It’s cozy, tempting Byleth to nuzzle closer to Claude. The chance slips away when he stands up in a rush.

“Well, we shouldn’t let the night go to waste.” He holds his hand out, baring the smile that makes Byleth melt. “And don’t say that you can’t dance.”

It would be better than getting drunk out of boredom. The bass quakes beneath their feet as they walk to the dancefloor. After five weeks of feeling exposed in class, she should be able to blend into a crowd full of strangers. The problem is deciding which of their moves to follow. Will she bend her arms in the air and shake her hips or writhe to the rhythm?

“Is this spot good?” Claude asks with a cupped hand to her ear.

Byleth nods. It feels effortless to fall into his hold, especially while riding the high of a good buzz. Her heart jolts as both of his hands fall on her waist. She touches his chest as they move to the steady beat together, hips aligned in pure heat. It may not be the Morfisian Tango, but there are other ways to become whole.

“Do you like this song?” Claude asks, lips above her lobe.

“I’ve never heard it before.” It’s lush and dream-like, a perfect fit for the atmosphere.

Someone brushes past her from behind, knocking her against Claude. The hazy lights expose the sheerness of his shirt, highlighting the dark hairs along his chest. Greed trembles through her fingertips as she touches the open buttons, eyeing the edges of his clavicle. He was always layered up at Garreg Mach, even on the warmest days. How wicked of him to hide such a treasure day after day.

His eyes have dipped to her chest, too. The difference is he seems pleased to be caught, tenderly squeezing her hips. “You must really find me interesting.”

“Just a little.” She runs her hands along his neck and bends his head closer to hers, one nudge away from his parted lips. She inhales the gin on his shallow breaths, wondering if it would taste as sharp and piney on her tongue. 

The next song has faster percussion and deafening bass, seductive in its instrumentals. Byleth can practically taste the heat rippling through the crowd like a contagion. She can’t spin and glide with Claude like they do in class but she can still have her way by improvising. She turns around and drives her body against his, melding with the groove through his skin. His hands roam across her midriff, pulling her further into the flames. This is the key to seizing the moment, she realizes—calling out for him to unearth every deep-set desire.

They cling to each other for a few more songs until Byleth decides she misses his face, as ridiculous as it is to miss someone you’re attached to. He looks parched for more. She likes it. “Can you keep up?” she laughs.

He taps his nose against hers. “I have all night for you.”

Week 6
You got the biggest heart / Sometimes I think you’re just too good for me

—

Springtime blooms sprout from the ground as the Harpstring Moon waxes over central Fódlan. Warm, cloudless days are expected to bathe the town for several weeks. The weather is so pleasant on Sunday that Byleth and Mercedes take a detour on their morning walk in the town park, circling the river that runs through Garreg Mach. The calming view keeps Byleth rooted as Mercedes grills her about Claude—every juicy detail, to be exact.

“You haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet,” she goads, unmasking her devious side.

They danced for a long time. Byleth closed her eyes as she swayed against him, imagining them in a dark corner away from the crowd. When they joined their friends again, they held hands under the table, concealing their smiles as they swept their fingertips over each other’s palms. All of her yearning built up an appetite, so everyone went to the twenty-four-hour diner close to Garreg Mach. She and Claude shared a stack of pancakes and he teased her for using up an entire container of syrup.

“I just feel so comfortable around him,” she tells Mercedes, breathless from the swell in her chest.

“Goodness, you’re glowing. You must really adore him.” Mercedes purses her lips, not so surreptitious with her blooming smile. “So you didn’t spend the night with him?”

Byleth panics, looking back at the mother who just passed by pushing a stroller. “No. And could you be any louder?” 

“You’ve been up close and personal for a month. It’s natural to feel the urge for something more.”

Bluntness aside, Byleth can’t help but wonder if history is repeating itself. Is their closeness once again warping her perception of what she wants? Or is it merely intensifying what she’s desired for the past year? He knew in his heart they’d meet again, and her feelings never waned from her feeble heart. But Goddess, must it ache this much to be wrapped around his finger?

After another lap around the lake, she and Mercedes head for one of the wooded trails. A small hill leads to a patch of half-grown trees making a slow return to their verdant appearance. But when Byleth takes the first step up the hill, a sharp pain in her left knee stops her. She leans on a tree trunk, wincing as she massages the sore spot. “That can’t be good,” she mumbles.

Mercedes hooks an arm around her, helping her hobble to a bench. “Maybe we’re not ready for a real hike yet.”

“Or maybe my body is saying I’ve had too much fun lately,” Byleth chuckles.

“Let’s not push it today,” Mercedes insists. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

They make a slow walk back to the park entrance, and at the apartment, Mercedes helps her up the building steps. She doesn’t have any real ice packs, so she has to dump a handful of ice cubes in a resealable bag. She collapses on the couch, dozing on and off waiting for the pain to pass. Despite the circumstances, she can’t pass up an opportunity to bum around with Sothis for the rest of the day. 

Everything changes by the middle of the night. The soreness shakes her out of sleep, tingling through her thigh when she swings her legs over her bed. In the bathroom, she grimaces when she sees her knee is swollen and red. By morning time, she has to make Sothis’ breakfast sitting down at the dining table, and she can’t be on her feet for too long without the pain spreading again.

She works from the couch with another shoddy ice pack on her leg, opening the file for her new editing assignment about agricultural history in imperial Fódlan. Her concentration breaks when her phone pings. There’s a message from Claude along with a map link to a restaurant on the north side of town.

Claude: Would you want to go here after class this week? 

Nothing like Morfisian food to go with the Morfisian Tango ;)

Byleth: I’d love to, but I hurt my knee yesterday. :( 

I probably shouldn’t go to class.

As she leaves a comment in the document, her phone rings. Claude’s name flashes on the screen and he barely gives her a chance to say hello. “Hey. How bad is it?”

If only the sound of his voice could heal her. “I can barely walk, but I’ll survive.” She glances at the top corner of her laptop to double-check the time. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“Don’t worry about that. Do you need to go to the doctor? I’ll come pick you up.”

“No, it’s not that bad. I guess I went overboard with the dancing last week.”

“Hmm, you couldn’t turn down a good time,” he dryly laughs. “Just keep me posted, all right?”

There isn’t much to report over the next day—she doesn’t feel any worse, but the pain and swelling haven’t disappeared either. Her supervisor is gracious enough to let her take two sick days, and by Wednesday, she reads enough medical articles and forums for her to assume that she sprained her knee. Trying to pinpoint when it all began is a different story.

“Maybe you worked too hard to prove you belong to me,” Claude says over the phone that afternoon, a smile evident in his voice. “Seriously, do you need anything?”

“Some real ice packs would be great,” she sighs, grimacing at the bag of water on her leg. “But only if it’s not too much trouble.”

“I’ve got class in an hour, but I can come over after.”

She winces from a twinge of reluctance. “Is it your last class today?”

“Nosy, aren’t you? I’ll see you soon.”

His stubborn self will be in her home—and the place is a pigsty. She rinses her dirty mugs and brings out the hand vacuum to clean Sothis’ hair off the couch. Too focused on straightening up the smallest things, she almost forgets to change out of her wrinkled sweatpants. She’s putting on a new pair of shorts when three knocks at the door send Sothis dashing into the bedroom. 

She takes a deep breath before opening the door, yet is immediately buoyed by Claude’s crooked smile. His denim jacket looks snug in all the right places, almost distracting her from the tote bag looped around his wrist and paper takeout bag between his hands. “Hope you’re hungry,” he says.

Whatever is inside smells amazing, but she still frowns at him. “I told you ice packs only.”

“Too bad. I’m breaking a lot of rules today.” 

Annoyed and endeared, she lets him in, leading the way to the kitchen. He doesn’t hesitate to make himself at home, putting the ice packs in the freezer and grabbing a bowl from the first cabinet he opens. “I got you soup from Eastern Winds,” he explains as he opens the takeout bag. 

Taking in the savory aroma, Byleth watches him dip a ladle into the pea-green broth, scooping up thin noodles peppered with herbs, lentils, and chickpeas. “It’s called ash reshteh,” he elaborates further, setting the full bowl in front of her. “We usually eat it to celebrate the new year, but it’s great to have when you’re sick—or injured in your case.”

“I didn’t know the café served soup.”

“It’s not on the official menu, but the owner let it slip once. I just gave her a gentle reminder.”

“Meaning you charmed her,” Byleth remarks.

Smirking, he sits across from her and gently lifts her sore leg, pulling it over his lap. “Just eat.”

The rich flavors are invigorating, compelling her to hum her praises. She quickly goes for a second helping, noticing that Claude’s attention has drifted behind her. He’s in a staring contest with an unimpressed Sothis, staying vigilant from her hiding spot under the coffee table. “Does she always give strangers the death stare?” he asks.

“She doesn’t approve of you yet,” Byleth teases. Seeing his pondering eyes fall back on her makes her chest tighten. “I was looking forward to learning the rest of the Tango tonight.”

“So was I. We can always take a makeup lesson.”

It’s a sweet offer, but she makes sense of the bigger picture. “You should go. It’ll look suspicious if we’re both missing.”

The twinkle in his eyes is a dead giveaway for mischief. “Now why would that be suspicious?”

“N-no, I just meant… everyone might get the wrong idea.”

“Ouch. So it’s wrong to be seen with a stud like me?”

Byleth shoves her spoon back in her mouth as he laughs. What she won’t admit is liking how relentless he can be.

“I wouldn’t live up to my gentlemanly reputation if I left you here.” More trouble brews in his eyes as he carefully massages her knee. “Mind if I stay with you?”

Byleth starts to protest, but feeling his delicate fingers knead into her skin stuns her into silence.

“At least until the swelling goes down. If it gets any worse, I’m taking you to a doctor whether you like it or not.”

Something about him taking charge kindles the flames in her core. “You still have school today.”

“It’s no big deal. I’ll get the lecture notes from Lorenz and Hilda. Is it a crime to have a little fun now and then?

Byleth shakes her head at his budding smile. “I won’t be much fun to be around.”

“That’s all right. There’s someone else who can keep me company.” He grabs one of Sothis’ toys from the floor and jingles it in her direction. Surprisingly, she listens, coming over to sniff his ankles. Perhaps she can’t resist being pulled into his orbit, too.

Byleth doesn’t have guests over often, so it’s strange to see another person occupying her space, admiring the walls that display who she is. He comments on her collection of echeverias by the windowsill and she wonders if he finds her more interesting or deranged for having so many. His presence somehow warms the air, making it more of a place to call home. But then again, he never fails to remind her of where she can belong.

They move to the couch, turning on the TV to catch up on a workplace sitcom. He keeps his hands over her stretched legs, drumming his fingers on top of her thigh. He bends them high across her skin and sweeps them low, quite the dangerous rhythm. It shouldn’t be possible for a soothing sensation to cause such torment, but duality is his forte. Only he can be the cause of the storm and the gateway to shelter.

Like he senses her intuition, his eyes leave the screen and search her face. “What else can I help with?”

There isn’t a hint of teasing in his voice, but that inquiring gleam permeates his eyes. “What do you want to help with?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Laundry? A bubble bath?”

The second suggestion comes with a measured squeeze to her thigh. Byleth watches him treat her skin like a canvas, spreading his touch at the pace of gentle brushstrokes. He sweeps his fingertips up to the cuffs of her shorts, changing direction toward her inner thigh. Anticipation pools in her gut. She lifts her heavy eyes back to his, prepared for something audacious to leave his lips.

“Looks like you have something to say.”

Desire plunges into her like a hot knife. The bedroom is right behind them. If that’s too far, he can take her right here. Goddess knows she can find a way to take him, injury be damned.

“Maybe,” she slowly starts, tracing a line over his knuckles, “I’m feeling better already.”

A humored scoff escapes him. “I beg to differ. You look like you’re in dire need of rest.”

If he drags this out any longer, he’ll be the one in a fragile state. “And how can you tell what I need?”

That gets him to press her palm flush against her thigh. “I would hardly call it a mystery.”

She can’t take it anymore. She grips his hand and lifts it to her waistband, but he snatches it back, almost knocking the ice pack off her knee. With cat-like reflexes, he bends his arm around her waist, bringing her close enough to wipe the menacing grin clean off his face. The smug defiance behind his eyes says he’s won—for now. Biting back a smirk, she weaves her hand into his. An overwhelming fondness douses the wildfire inside, crashing over her the longer she holds him. One way or the other, all that matters is having him close.

“Just stay with me,” she exhales.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Week 7
I’ll find my way back to you / Please say you’ll be waiting

—

“You had us worried, dear,” Manuela fusses when Byleth shows up at the studio on Saturday morning, hustling around the lobby counter to meet her. “You should be resting for as long as you need to.”

“What in the world possessed you to walk all this way?” Ferdinand utters, taking her hand to help her sit down.

Fifty paces from her apartment is no big deal, Byleth wants to say. When she called the day before to explain her absence, they both fawned over her like a damsel in distress. But she couldn’t stay off her feet forever. With the swelling gone, all she feels is a dull ache in her knee, no worse than a bruise after bumping into a table. “I’m feeling a lot better, I promise. Can I make up what I missed?”

“Of course,” Ferdinand replies, “but you’re not obligated to finish the class.”

“I want to,” Byleth urges, firm and dauntless. She would hate herself for giving up when there are only two weeks left. “I’ve been having a lot of fun. Isn’t that what the art of dancing is all about?”

He and Manuela exchange perplexed looks, but neither of them go back on their words. “Well, we are learning the waltz next week. It is much more calmer than the previous dances.”

“But don’t think that gives you a free pass to slow the class down,” Manuela chides, wagging her manicured finger.

“I’m not asking for one,” Byleth chuckles.

“Before you go, be sure to wear this.” Manuela moves back behind the counter, rapidly opening drawers and shuffling through boxes. What could Byleth need to put on, a hip-hugging dress? A leftover pair of jazz pants from the near-lost package? But Manuela only hands over a black compression sleeve designed for knees.

Sitting around at home for the next few days gives Byleth time to read up on the history of the waltz. The oldest of the ballroom dances, it originated in tenth-century Adrestia among noble houses and became a tool for mingling and courting at gatherings. It was popularized at Garreg Mach’s annual ball celebrating its establishment, a tradition that continues under every Ethereal Moon. Every photo she sees captures the exquisite emotions between the connected partners, making her stir. She hopes she has the power to express herself with such elegant devotion.

Wednesday’s lesson begins with basic box steps. Manuela demonstrates the accompanying rises and falls that give partners a floating appearance as they glide around the dancefloor. Claude, as usual, leads Byleth with unyielding confidence, yet he breaks eye contact for once to occasionally glance at the compression sleeve over her leggings. 

“My eyes are up here,” she teases.

Startled, he lightly laughs. “Sorry. Let me know if I’m going too fast.”

“I’m all right.” She chews on her lip, willing herself to be truthful. “You’re cute whenever you’re concerned.”

“Ah, if you’re buttering me up, that must mean you want something.”

He should know exactly what she craves: A peek under his cream-colored hoodie. A taste of his sharp jawline. But those wild truths shall be revealed in due time. “You’re good at making me want many things,” she corrects, her voice low and beguiling.

In a shocking turn of events, his foot scuffs on the hardwood as they curve to their right. For a moment, she thinks she’s rendered him speechless until that infamous grin appears. “Flirting on the dancefloor? Tactless.” 

Embracing her honest side means accepting her world has changed over these seven weeks. She can now say she loves dancing. She loves the freedom of expressing herself from the inside out, and she loves learning with someone who is just as determined as she is. Above all, she loves him for everything he’s chosen to be, a delinquent who brings her soup or an ambitious assistant who taught her the importance of change. And she hopes that he can love her for who she is, too.

Before everyone leaves for the night, Manuela and Ferdinand take a moment to address the class. “Ferdinand and I would like to tell you about our tradition that involves friendly competition.”

“On the last night of class, we’ll be holding a ball of our own to show off your waltz skills. The winning couple will receive a discount if you choose to move on to our Intermediate Mixed Ballroom class, along with one free private lesson with the esteemed Manuela.”

Mercedes and Dorothea clap and squeal while Lorenz tosses his hair back with a lofty chuckle. “Consider this my time to shine,” he boasts. Byleth feels an eager pinch and glances at Claude, wondering if he senses it, too. Still staring ahead, his lips stretch into a smile as he wraps his hand around hers.

“Practice well for the next week and come dressed in your formal best,” an enlivened Manuela adds. “As long as you don’t outshine me, that is.”

*

Hilda, Mercedes, and Dorothea leaped at the opportunity for a shopping trip, but not without pressuring Byleth to come along. She ends up roaming the historic district near Garreg Mach with them on Saturday morning, going on the hunt for a boutique dress shop that Mercedes heard good things about. But her optimism fizzles upon seeing the mannequins in the window posed in pastel dresses and frilly fabrics.

The shop is small, but fortunately stuffed with racks holding various styles. Byleth touches a fitted metallic gray dress, immediately turned off by the deep slit down the side. Showing too much skin is the opposite of formal. Hilda browses the rack in front of her, lifting her inquisitive pink eyes. “You should go for a color that pops. Claude likes yellows and golds.”

Byleth stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“Aww, don’t act coy. But I guess it doesn’t matter what you wear. He won’t take his eyes off you.”

“We know it’s not an issue for him already,” Dorothea snickers by the shoe wall.

Byleth sees her cheeks burn scarlet in the mirror behind her. There really is a first time for everything, including being the center of gossip. 

She wanders to the other side of the shop, touching lace dresses and prom-like gowns with dramatic capes. She holds a marigold halter neck dress up to her frame—pretty, she thinks, but not a good match with her pale skin. An satin wrap dress she picks up is too close to her hair color and she wants to change things up. Then she approaches a mannequin wearing a floor-length dusty rose dress that flares out from the waist. Her eyes travel from the simple v-neck to the flowy elbow-length sleeves. Something blooms in her chest that she can’t find the words for, but she can say that it feels promising.

She senses another presence, expecting to see Mercedes. But an employee stands next to her, smiling between her and the dress. “Are you shopping for a wedding? This dress has been popular with bridesmaids all season.”

Byleth shakes her head, thumbing along the soft chiffon and pleated bodice. “It is beautiful though.”

“Come to think of it, this is actually the last size we have in stock. Would you like to try it on?”

The promising feeling strikes again. She’d like to see how far it can take her. “Yes, I would.”

Week 8
Beautiful stranger, here you are in my arms

—

Tuesday, 11:46 p.m.

Byleth: Hi. Are you still awake?

Claude: Yeah, just one of those nights

What are you doing up?

Byleth: I was thinking about you.

Claude: …How exactly?

Choose your words carefully ;)

Byleth: Grow up.

Do you want to meet early before class tomorrow? We can practice before the contest.

Claude: I’d like that! I need to pull out my best moves to beat Lorenz

What are you wearing?

Byleth: …Right now?

Claude: I mean, what are you going to wear?

But I’ll gladly hear that answer too ;)

Byleth: No comment on either.

How about we surprise each other?

Claude: Fiiiiiiine

Seriously, get some rest.

Byleth: I will. Good night.

Sleep can’t settle in—not without one last burst of honesty.

Byleth: I can’t wait to see you. :)

*

It’s a quarter past six when Byleth walks—or wobbles—into the dance studio, halfway adjusted to the small heel sandals Mercedes convinced her to buy. From the main room, she overhears Ferdinand instructing his Advanced Waltz class, occupied until Mixed Ballroom starts. She slightly lifts the bottom of her dress as she continues down the hall, where Claude is waiting in studio number three. 

Peeking through the window in the door, she catches his reflection in the mirror before his actual self. His hair is neatly combed back, aside from that lone strand over his right eye that seems to have a life of its own. He looks deep in thought as he paces around the room, infuriatingly beautiful in his concentration. Surely, he isn’t taking the contest that seriously. But there are serious matters on Byleth’s mind as well.

She knocks on the door twice, taking a steady breath before stepping in. But the concept of breathing fades from her mind when she sees Claude donning a traditional Almyran coat, embellished in blush pink ogee patterns and rose gold sequins. A necklace with three rows of pearl white and pink beads descends from his collar, colors matching the scarf tied around his waist. He’s too radiant for words, immaculate in his own right. The inferno in her body spreads as his mesmerized eyes roam across her figure.

“No wonder Hilda was pushing me to wear pink,” he laughs. His eyes soften as he closes the gap between them, hands outstretched to find hers. “You look beautiful,” he whispers.

“Thank you.” Plummeting toward a daze, she forces herself to blink. “I wanted to see you before it got noisy.”

“Wise decision.”

They meet in closed position, faces alight with wonder. Byleth gets a shaky start to the box steps in her heels but recovers with Claude’s guidance. Swaying with him feels like skipping through the air. Their linked selves appear in all three of the room’s mirrors, a reminder that every version of her is safe in his arms. 

“I can’t believe it’s the last day of class,” he says, leading them to the right. 

“I know. I’ll miss staring at Ferdinand’s hair.” She can’t leave tonight without asking him which products he uses.

“And I’ll miss Manuela reminding you to look at your partner.” 

Byleth can’t obscure her modest smile. It was the most important lesson she took to heart. “I do love how you look at me.”

Once they’re warmed up, they transition to the progressive steps, moving counterclockwise outside the center floor. Byleth’s dress flounces as they bounce on their toes, lifting themselves through the turns. She feels freer than ever, fully transformed into the person she wants to be: Honest enough to lay it all on the line, promising to follow every step he takes. 

“Do you ever think about the people we researched?” she softly asks.

“Which ones? The heroes or the bastards?”

“The commanders who had to fight old allies or the childhood friends who became enemies over different ideologies. I can’t imagine how that must have felt.” She tightens her grip around his hand. “They made me wonder if we aren’t always meant to be in each other’s lives forever.”

Claude gives her a skeptical look. “Grim perspective, but I know what you mean.”

She laughs at herself. There should be an easier, lighter way to make the comparison. All it takes is honesty. “When you left, I wanted to drop everything and follow you. But I wasn’t sure if you needed somebody. Or if I was the right person you needed.” 

Surprise and a shy smile sweep across Claude’s face. “Here I was thinking I wasn’t right for you at the time.”

Byleth shakes her head, happy to prove him wrong for once. “I've always known you were right for me.” 

On a slow night in the library, they once talked about how fear fades with knowledge. The more you learn about the world, the more certain you become of your place in it. What you’re sure of can change in an instant, but some things are everlasting, capable of weathering all storms. And what do you do when certainty stands firm like a beacon?

You run to it—as fast as you can.

“I want to be wherever you are,” Byleth declares as her heart bursts into pieces. “And I want to be with you for as long as I can.”

Her skin is still tingling as Claude slowly drops his arms and places his hands on her waist. She holds on to his shoulders, realizing his easy smile has finally reached his eyes. The beauty of it makes her most cherished words dance along her tongue and set her free.

“I love you, Claude.”

He cups her face, emerald eyes abundant in joy. “Khalid,” he whispers.

She curls her lips to ask what he means, but no sounds come out.

“My real name. It’s Khalid.”

It’s a beautiful name, just like the beautiful world he comes from. She can’t wait to learn all she can about him, to have him as her guide to take in every magnificent sight. With the way he tightens his arms around her, he feels just as compelled to share those dreams.

“I love you, too, Byleth.”

She closes her eyes as their lips touch, floating to the heavens. Her greatest wish is to be tethered to his warmth for all time like this, roaming that perfect world where they can walk in step. But they're already here, and he feels like home and possibility and all the riches in the world. To meld with him is fate manifesting in its purest form.

She senses him shifting her to his right, running his hands down her sides. Then a gasp escapes her as she feels herself falling in his hold, bent above ground and held in a dip. Claude keeps his sturdy arms around her waist, grinning as panic and amusement sweep over her face. She clings to his shoulder, breathlessly watching that single strand of hair swing in her face. “We haven’t practiced this move yet,” she giggles against his lips.

“I thought you liked to improvise.” His mirthful smile is the last thing she sees before he kisses her again and again.

They settle down to resume the box steps, but it isn’t long until the mischief in their eyes says it’s time for another kind of practice. Byleth tugs on Claude's beads until he has her pressed against the mirror, melding in a mass of yearning heat. She doesn’t know where to begin tasting him, but when his lips find her neck, she decides it's perfectly fine to be devoured first. As her eyes flutter open, she spots a clock above the door—and the minute hand is inching towards the top of the hour. He must mistake her worried hum for pleasure because he digs his fingers into her waist, tonguing her faster. She has to pry his face off her and turn his head to the clock for him.

“Shit,” they mumble in sync.

They lock hands and dash to the main studio, giggling through their ragged breaths. Once they rush inside, they find every inch of the room dripping with elegance. Golden star decorations dangle from the ceiling and the wall mirror is covered in a long black tulle curtain with string lights. Everyone is already paired up and dressed to the nines. Even Ferdinand has decided to go all out, showing off his chest in a lace-up top. Byleth feels a lurch when their eyes drop to hers and Claude’s entwined hands. A shocked Lorenz puts a hand to his chest, covering his rose lapel. Sylvain and Mercedes beam at Byleth with enough pride to make her eyes mist.

“You all should be very proud of what you’ve accomplished in these eight weeks,” Manuela says to the whole class, unable to hide the crack of emotion in her voice. “If there’s one thing you should remember, it’s that dancing was made to move you. Show us that you can do that with this final dance.” The bottom of her red gown spins out like a tornado as she turns to her left. “Claude. Byleth. Would you two like to start us off?”

Byleth would love nothing more. She turns to Claude—Khalid—ready to take the leap. Like on the first day of class, he extends his hand and leads her into his warm embrace. Gentle guitar strums echo through the speakers and she holds on tight, becoming the focus of his loving eyes—now and forever.

And they begin.