She stood. The room erupted in a collective, sharp intake of breath. She wasn’t standing on her own—she leaned heavily against him, her body supported by his calm, steady presence—but she was vertical, silver gown shimmering as she anchored herself to his frame.
Wesley didn’t miss a beat. He placed one hand firmly on her waist and took her other hand, his movements fluid and intuitive. He didn’t treat her like a broken doll; he treated her like a queen. He began to move, not in a clumsy, hesitant shuffle, but with a complex, practiced grace that whispered of late nights spent watching his father’s old medical textbooks on balance and posture.