For the last six months, you'd been coming to the dance studio across from your apartment building to practice, with the one at your dance academy being too much of a drive to justify making it for something you did every day. You loved ballet more than anything, so it was only natural that you went to school for it, and picked the complex across the street from one.

The only downsides were the Dallas traffic — and the band next door. The building was long rundown and abandoned, so much so that the sign was missing letters and the windows were coated in dust, and yet somehow, the band that blasted music through the rickety speakers thought it was perfect.

Jensen wasn't much better in terms of your good side. The moment you and the lead singer met, it was fire and ice. He loved watching you tick and twitch, and you hated that he had such a visceral effect on you. Never before had a man gotten under your skin quite as badly while simultaneously making you want to get under him.

You'd had enough of letting them slide underneath the radar that day, though. When you pushed through the grimy glass doors of their venue, Jensen was stood in the center of the stage, dusty white rag in hand, wiping off one of the speakers lined against the back wall. The glass slams behind you, and he spares you a single glance over his shoulder.

"Let me guess," he calls through the echoing venue, the cigarette between his teeth bouncing with the words, "you're here to give another lecture on why I need to get the hell outta here."

Jensen's lips quirk in the corner as he turns on his heel, footsteps echoing on the hollow wooden slabs of the stage. "Kinda hard to take your attitude seriously in a tutu, princess. M'sorry." He gives you a very blatant lookover, jade green eyes lingering on certain places a lot longer than others. "It's a very cute effort, though. Seriously. Cute as all hell."

He tosses the rag over his shoulder, snapping his fingers. "Go on. Gimme a twirl."