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says, leaning forward, touching his toes then turning his hands over so I can lay mine on top of his. He gets to his feet and then pulls me up too.
    “Have I ever let you down?” he asks me, his eyes moving around my face like it’s a real question and he’s in search of a real answer.
    I tilt my head when I frown at him. “Never.”
    Relief runs over him, softening his expression and relaxing his fingers, intertwined with mine. “Good. Let’s get fresh air.”
    “Company dinner at six,” Sakura reminds us as we pull on street clothes over our leotards and tights. It’s easier than changing, even if we probably smell like sweat. She grabs my elbow and adds, “Try and relax. Injuries are made worse by stress.”
    Relax. Ha. I’m not sure if that word is in my vocabulary at all these days. Especially with Zed’s hand still holding one of mine. This feels different and I can’t figure out how, or why.
    Outside, the weather’s foul, caught somewhere between rain and snow. Zed pulls out both of the ridiculous orange hats he bought us and tugs one over my head. He loops the tassels together beneath my chin, his knuckles grazing the line of my jaw, while his eyes remain on his hands, studious and earnest. He is always so earnest. I rise on my toes, despite my legs screaming at me, and kiss his cheek.
    “Thank you for the hat,” I say. “Even if it’s a ridiculous color.”
    “It makes you look—” he pauses, and then laughs a little bit, “—ridiculous is probably the only word for it, but here, we’ll be ridiculous together.”
    He pulls the second hat over his head and it honestly doesn’t look any better on him. So we’re both laughing when we set off into the falling slush, the cold puddles gathering at the corners of sidewalks, and into a meandering walk far away from ballet and the strain on our minds and bodies. We walk through the city, stopping for coffee twice and picking at a cookie between us. Zed wraps it up and tucks it into the same pocket where he tucks my hand, the way he did back in Philadelphia.
    He never makes me feel small, but I always feel safe. That’s so rare. Wanting to feel safe doesn’t mean I’m weak or can’t take care of myself. I’ve spent my whole life taking care of myself.
    “How are your legs?” Zed asks as we study a map, trying to find our way through the city to this weird bridge we saw on the Internet. “Do you want to catch a cab?”
    “I don’t know.” I glance down. “Dear legs, how are you?”
    Zed laughs. “A new name for the ballet I’ll write you one day. Dear Legs.”
    “That’s a terrible name,” I say, but my cheeks flush and I stare at the map in his hands. I didn’t know he thought of writing a ballet for me. I never considered myself a muse. “What was the original name?”
    “Balancing the Somatic Equation,” he says, like he’s said a hundred times.
    “Balancing,
not
Balance
?
”
    He glances at me. “It’s not an order. It’s a journey. The Python Bridge is this way. You’re sure you can walk?”
    I shrug and so he folds up the map and slips his hand back into his pocket around mine. His hand is rough from the cold, but I won’t pull mine away.
    The Python Bridge is a red footbridge with a strange structure, twisting just enough to look like a snake’s body. The rain and snow combination, with a little bit of wind over the bridge, has kept most of the tourists away. I pull my hand out of Zed’s pocket and dart ahead of him, breathing the crisp winter air deep into my lungs. I step long and bright, creating light and bounce on the wooden stairs, and then turn, my arms outstretched to face the water. My smile makes my cheeks ache.
    When I turn to Zed, he’s grinning, looking ridiculous in that orange and blue hat as he strikes a pose and then walks to me like we’re on a stage. When he bows and offers me his hand, I slide my fingers between his, gripping tightly. He lifts his hand above our heads, and when I pirouette, his