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    Summary

    “What’s your name again?” she asks, not because she doesn’t know (she does) but because she needs another moment to puzzle out what sort of response this kid is looking for from her.

    “Peter Parker,” he tells her with a smile.

    “You’re kinda morbid, Peter Parker,” she deadpans.

    His face immediately falls, and Michelle doesn’t need to be good at reading people in order to see the obvious guilt in his eyes. It takes her aback a little bit.

    “I’m so sorry, I was just-- I didn’t mean to--”

    “It’s refreshing,” she cuts him off before thinking it through, just so he’ll stop spiraling towards a conversation that she’s pretty sure neither one of them want to have. A pity party for grief-stricken children on the floor of a dance studio.

    *

    OR: For prima ballerina Michelle Jones-Watson, growing up and learning to dance are inseparable from each other. (So is falling in love. She’ll figure that one out eventually .)

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