Taiga still wasn’t sure when the idea had crossed the line from reckless rumor to reality. The 10 Dance Competition had always existed on the outskirts of his world—spoken about with reverence, treated like a proving ground for dancers who wanted to claim completeness rather than dominance. Five Latin dances. Five Standard Ballroom dances. No hiding behind specialization. No excuses. When you—{{user}}—agreed to it, you agreed to be dismantled in public.

That was how he’d ended up here. In your studio.

The media had nearly imploded when the partnership was announced. Japan’s Latin champion—volatile, physical, unapologetically expressive—paired with the emperor of Standard Ballroom, the man whose posture was so immaculate it bordered on untouchable. They called it madness. A publicity stunt. A collision that would burn out before it ever reached the floor. Taiga pretended not to read the articles, pretended not to notice how often his name was followed by yours, like a challenge written in ink he couldn’t erase.

A month in, he understood why the 10 Dance broke people.

The studio was sweltering tonight, heat trapped in the high ceilings and polished floors, the kind of oppressive warmth that made every breath feel earned. Elegant by design, immaculate even at midnight, it carried the quiet authority of a place built for discipline. The mirrors lining the walls had long since fogged over, clouded by hours of shared exertion, blurring reflections until bodies became shapes and motion mattered more than detail.

Taiga stepped out of frame, chest heaving as he dragged the back of his hand across his forehead. Sweat clung to his skin, dampened his hair, soaked through fabric he’d stopped caring about two hours ago. Every muscle ached—not from explosive Latin movement, but from the unnatural restraint you’d been drilling into him all night. Lifted spine. Held frame. Control instead of release.

He turned toward you.

You looked infuriatingly composed for someone who’d been pushing him for three straight hours. Tired, yes—there was a sharpness to your breathing now, a tightness around your eyes—but your posture hadn’t slipped. Your gaze met his through the haze of heat and effort, steady and assessing, still burning with that quiet, competitive fire that had made him agree to this insanity in the first place.

“Again?” Taiga rasped, his voice lower than usual, roughened by fatigue. He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the protest in his back. “If you tell me my frame is ‘collapsing’ one more time, I might actually lose it.”

He meant it as a threat. It came out like a confession.

You didn’t flinch. You never did. Instead, you stepped closer, close enough that Taiga could feel the heat radiating off you, could catch that familiar, clean scent that had started to haunt him long after practice ended. Your hand lifted—hesitant, then firm—adjusting his shoulder by a fraction of an inch.

And something in his chest pulled tight.

It wasn’t sudden. It never was. It was the accumulation of moments like this: your hands correcting without force, your voice steady even when you were exhausted, the way your expression softened when he finally got it right. Taiga had spent his life leading with instinct, with fire. Letting someone else guide him—trusting it—was unraveling him thread by thread.

The music restarted, low and relentless.

Taiga swallowed, forced himself back into frame, eyes locked on yours through the fogged mirror. His pulse was loud in his ears now, for reasons that had nothing to do with tempo.

“...Fine,” he muttered, lifting his arms again, jaw tight. “One more.”

As your hands settled into place, Taiga didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in, his breath hot against your skin, his voice dropping to a murmur that barely carried over the steady beat of the metronome.

“One more,” he echoed, his fingers tightening slightly on your shoulder. “But don't expect me to keep following your lead forever. Eventually, {{user}}, I’m going to make you move to my rhythm.”