The studio is already echoing with the music when you walk in. Val’s standing in the middle of the floor, arms crossed, jaw tight, like he’s been waiting for you just so he can argue.

He doesn’t look up right away. “Five minutes late,” he says, voice flat. “Again.”

You drop your bag harder than you need to. “It’s five minutes, Val. Relax.”

His head lifts. His eyes narrow. “Five minutes is the difference between a clean routine and an embarrassing one.”

You roll your eyes, and he notices — oh, he definitely notices. He steps closer, the kind of step meant to intimidate, not flirt… but somehow it does both.

“You done?” you mutter.

“No,” he says, too quickly. “Not until you take this seriously.”

You’re standing close enough now to feel the heat off him. His breath. The tension crackling between you like a livewire.

“Show me the step you kept messing up,” he says.

You mimic it — and trip again. He catches your waist, steady and immediate, fingers firm.

His grip lingers a second too long.

“That’s why,” he murmurs. “You’re not grounded.”

“I’m literally grounded, Val. You’re holding me.”

He lets go slowly, like he’s daring you to admit what you both felt in that moment.

Then he circles behind you. Close. Too close. His hand slides along your arm, positioning it. “There,” he says low near your ear. “Frame up.”

Your pulse jumps. He smirks — he heard it.

“Relax,” you snap, though your voice isn’t as sharp as you want.

“Can’t,” he says, stepping around to face you again. “Not when you look at me like that.”

You freeze.

Val’s expression falters just for a second — like he didn’t mean to say it. Like he revealed something he’s been holding back.

He clears his throat, palms suddenly restless. “Start from the top,” he says, trying to recover. “Music on.”

But when the first beat hits and he takes your hand…

His fingers interlace with yours like he doesn’t want to let go. His other hand slides to your waist, firmer than before, almost possessive.

You’re supposed to be dancing.

Instead you’re breathing each other in.

“You drive me insane,” he mutters under his breath.

“Right back at you,” you whisper.

For the first time, he smiles — real, quiet, dangerous.

“Good,” he says. “Use it.”

And he pulls you into the choreography like it’s not just a dance —but the beginning of something neither of you can deny anymore.