Chapter 16 Malachi #2
Nyx opened the box and stopped.
The skates were pink. Not childish, not flimsy. Solid leather, structured and serious, the color clean and deliberate instead of cute. Still, it wasn’t what she’d expected, and I saw the hesitation before she smoothed it away.
“You picked out skates,” she said.
“I picked out the right skates,” I replied. “Not the ones that wreck your ankles.”
Her mouth twitched. “That part, at least, I appreciate.”
At least. I caught it. Pink wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t hers either. The distinction settled in my chest, quiet but insistent. I’d aimed for thoughtful and landed close, not exact. That bothered me more than I let show.
“What’s your favorite color?” I asked. I kept it practical.
She hesitated, then exhaled through her nose. “Deep purple,” she said. “Not soft. Not light. Deep.”
I nodded once and let it go outwardly, but inwardly the change locked in. Data mattered. Getting it right mattered. If I’d missed the first mark, I’d make sure the rest of the night landed clean.
I reached into the bag beside me and set a small bundle on the bench. “Laces,” I said. “Options.”
She glanced down. There were a few dark choices, nothing loud, nothing careless. I picked up the purple last and held it out.
“These work,” I said. “If you want them.”
Her eyes stayed on my hand for a beat longer than necessary. Then she nodded. “Yeah. Those.”
The exchange was small, but it settled something between us. I hadn’t nailed it on instinct, but I listened. That counted.
She changed into leggings and a thick sweatshirt, no performance, no coyness. I changed into sweats and a jacket that could hide a weapon, because romance didn’t cancel caution. It never had.
When she came back holding the skates the box sat open on the bench. A dare for her almost.
I dropped to one knee and held a skate out. My pride didn’t argue. This was part of the date, and it was part of the message.
“If you want,” I said, meeting her eyes. “If you don’t, you do it yourself.”
She studied my hands, then my face, then my hands again. “Do it,” she said, softer than her attitude. Her eyes didn’t blink when she gave me permission.
My hands were careful around her ankle, lacing tight enough for support. When my thumb brushed her skin, her inhale went sharp, then she let it out slow.
I took the cue and slowed down. Not because I was unsure, but because control mattered, and I wanted her to feel it belonged to her even while I touched her. I threaded the deep purple laces through the hooks with even tension, deliberate and exact.
“You’re not going to yank me,” she said quietly.
“No,” I replied. “I’m not.”
I laced the second skate the same way. I didn’t rush. I didn’t act like I was doing her a favor. I treated it like it mattered, because she mattered, and because she would feel the difference even if she never named it.
When she stood, she wobbled. Irritation flashed across her face.
“You think I’m going to fall,” she accused.
“Maybe,” I said. “But you won’t fall alone. That’s not how I move.”
That landed. She looked away, and I let the quiet sit instead of chasing it. She needed space to decide she wanted something. Wanting had been used against her before.
We drove to the rink under a name that wasn’t mine. Meridian owned the building through layers of paperwork because leverage mattered and privacy did too. Tonight was an adult skate, the kind meant for people who worked all week and came here to remember how their bodies moved.
The parking lot buzzed with laughter and music bleeding through walls. Wind off the lake cut sharp, clean. Nyx paused when she stepped out, eyes sweeping the crowd. She wasn’t looking for fun first. She was looking for threats.
Inside, the lights were low, the neon bright, and the bass rolled through the room. Aunties in hoops. Uncs in clean sweats. Couples who argued all week and came here to fall back into rhythm.
Nyx stepped onto the floor and stopped. Memory caught her, not hard enough to stop her, just long enough to be felt.
“I used to come with my cousins,” she said quietly. “Every Friday. Ten dollars and a dream.”
“They were famous,” I said. “In their own lane.”
She glanced at me, surprised. She’d expected teasing. She’d expected me to make it small.
“You’re here now,” I added. “Nobody gets to take it from you.”
The music shifted. The crowd moved. She pushed off, cautious at first, arms stiff with balance she hated needing. The purple skates caught the lights as she moved.
When she wobbled, I steadied her with two fingers at her wrist and let go before she could accuse me of holding on. I stayed close enough to catch her and far enough to let her pride breathe.
“Bend your knees,” I said.
“I am,” she snapped.
“You’re thinking,” I corrected. “Let your body remember.”
She did. Her stance dropped. Her balance locked. Satisfaction flashed across her face, quick and sharp.
I watched her smile before she realized she was doing it.
“I’m not smiling,” she said.
The lie was terrible.
The DJ switched tracks, and the crowd whooped. Somebody yelled from the rail, and somebody else laughed so loud it turned heads. A line of skaters moved in sync, shoulders bouncing, feet carving patterns.
Two older men hit the center and did something smooth and ridiculous, knees bending low, feet crossing and uncrossing, spins so clean they made the crowd scream.
They weren’t showing off for women. They were showing off for the culture, for the room, for themselves.
It was Black joy with swagger, and it had rules and language and history.
Nyx stared, hungry. “What is that,” she asked.
“People who grew up in it,” I said. “They don’t even think about it anymore.”
She kept watching. Her fingers flexed at her sides, and I saw the moment the challenge rose in her.
“You want to learn something,” I said.
Nyx rolled closer, breath coming faster now, not from heat but from living. “Teach me,” she demanded. There was no bitterness in it. There was an appetite.
“Alright,” I said. “Crossovers first. Left over right. Outside foot guides, inside foot follows. Keep your eyes up.”
She tried and nearly clipped her wheels. Her hands flailed, and I moved in, steadying her at the waist for one beat before releasing. The touch was deliberate. It was support, not possession, and she felt the difference because her shoulders did not lock.
“Slow down,” I ordered. My voice went firm because I refused to watch her get hurt on my watch.
“You’re bossy,” she said, breathless.
“Yes,” I answered. “That’s why you’re still breathing.”
She shot me a look that could start a fire, then she listened. She crossed clean, and her eyes went wide.
“Again,” I said.
She did it again, smoother. Her grin came back, wide and unguarded, and it hit me harder than her scent. There was something about seeing her, not calculating exits, not measuring threats, not negotiating survival. Just moving.
The DJ called out a backwards skate track, and half the rink flipped direction like it was nothing. Nyx hesitated, then shook her head once.
“I can’t go backwards,” she said.
“You can,” I replied. “You just haven’t.”
I skated behind her, close enough to catch her without touching. “Open your shoulders. Look over one shoulder, not both. Keep your knees soft.”
She tried, wobbled, and made a frustrated sound. Rookie moves.
“Breathe,” I said. “You don’t have to win the first time.”
Nyx’s jaw clenched, then she inhaled and let it out slow. She tried again, and this time her feet found the rhythm. She rolled backward three clean counts, then five.
Her laugh escaped before she could swallow it. It was loud enough to turn heads, and two women near the rail smiled. It was the sound of someone remembering who she was before the world made her hard.
“That’s it,” I said. “That’s yours.”
The pride on her face was bright. It wasn’t performative. It was clean, the kind you feel in your teeth. She pushed forward again, eager now.
“Teach me something else,” she said.
“Alright,” I replied. “Loosen your knees. Let the beat do the work.”
I showed her a simple weave, slow enough to follow. It wasn’t about mastering a named move. It was about learning how to let her body talk to the music.
Nyx started stiff, then the rhythm caught her. Her knees softened. Her hips followed. Her feet stayed steady, and her hands stopped hovering. It wasn’t perfect, but it was hers, and her laughter came out louder this time.
People nearby whooped. Somebody yelled, “Get it, sis,” and Nyx’s face lit up.
When the song ended, she rolled to a stop in front of me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “I didn’t fall,” she panted.
“You didn’t,” I agreed. “And you won’t.”
She swallowed, then looked past me toward the rail where a couple women were watching with smiles on their faces. Nyx’s shoulders lifted, then dropped.
“You planned this,” she said, quieter.
“Yes,” I answered. “Because you asked to be courted.”
Her gaze snapped back to mine. “Most men hear that and think flowers,” she said.
“I’m not most men,” I replied.
She stared at me.
The DJ slid into a smoother track, something slow enough to make the rink feel intimate. Couples drifted closer. The lights dimmed a fraction. The room changed in that subtle way it did when the music demanded softness.
Nyx rolled one more lap, then turned back toward me with a set to her mouth. “Watch me,” she said.
“I am,” I answered.
She tried a small toe stop turn, the move kids did to show off. She wobbled, corrected, and came out upright. For a second, she froze.
Then it hit her all at once.
Nyx’s face cracked open, pure and unfiltered. The joy in it was clean, and it made my chest tighten because it reminded me how much had been stolen from her. She rolled straight at me, no hesitation in her eyes.
She threw her arms around my shoulders, and my skates slid back a fraction. My hands caught her waist on instinct, steadying her, and I did not let it turn into a hold.
“Careful,” I started.