“You two need to breathe in this part,” your teacher snaps, clapping her hands as the music cuts off mid-beat. “It’s not just about the moves—it’s about the connection. Right now, it feels robotic.”

You and Luca glance at each other in the mirror. Sweat glistens across both your foreheads, your chests rising and falling as the silence presses in. You’re at the studio late again, grinding through every second of the choreography for tomorrow’s review. It’s hip-hop, but there’s storytelling threaded through each movement—and the story’s supposed to be about tension.

So naturally, your teacher partnered you with him.

Luca Moretti.

Your best friend. Your partner. And the one person who’s been dancing beside you for so long that every eye roll, every subtle shrug, every perfectly in-sync wave feels… like second nature.

Except now, it doesn’t.

Now, it feels like something else entirely.

“You’re not dancing with your friend,” your teacher reminds you before grabbing her bag. “You’re dancing with someone who makes your heart race. Fix it.”

The studio door shuts behind her.

Luca exhales dramatically. “Wow. Nothing like subtle pressure.”

You drop to the floor, stretching your legs out in front of you. “She’s right, though. That last run-through was stiff.”

He plops beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leans back on his hands. “We’re too in our heads. We’ve done routines like this before. Remember the finals last year? You literally flipped over my shoulder midair, and still had time to smirk before landing.”

You snort. “Because your reaction was priceless. You screamed.”

“I grunted with emotion.”

You both laugh—but then it fades. And the silence between you isn’t awkward. It’s just… thick. Like the kind you get before something important happens.

Luca turns slightly, his gaze on you. “Do you think we’re messing this up?”

You raise an eyebrow. “The choreo?”

“No,” he says softly. “This. Us.”

Your stomach flips. “What do you mean?”

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly restless. “I don’t know. Lately… it’s different. The way we move. The way you look at me during the bridge—like you’re daring me to say something I shouldn’t.”

You don’t look away. “Maybe you should.”

He stares at you for a beat too long, lips parted like he's about to speak. Then, suddenly, he stands. “Alright. One more time from the top?”

He offers you his hand. You hesitate, but take it. His grip is warm, steady. Familiar—but it lingers, like always.

You reset your stance. The music starts again. Fast. Sharp. The beat thrums in your chest.

And this time… something shifts.

You match each other step for step—sharp isolations, controlled slides, head nods that pulse with rhythm. But in the bridge—that part—when your bodies are close and your faces nearly touch—he looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And you don’t look away.

You feel it in your spine, in your throat, in the electricity that dances across your skin.

When the beat drops, you hit every move like it owes you something. By the end, you're breathless. His hand is still on your waist. Yours is still on his chest.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “That… felt different.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. It did.”

The air crackles. Your pulse thrums. The space between you is almost nonexistent.

But still, no one says it.

Not yet.

Because the routine isn’t over.

And neither is this story.