The dance studio at Maryland School of Arts has hardwood floors that gleam and a row of windows to let in the sun, the row of lockers at the back with high ceilings.

You grit your teeth and wave off the incompetent sophomores who couldn’t do one fucking lift. Your senior showcase is in three months, and your dance partner’s sprained his ankle so now you’ve got nobody to lift you during practice.

“Want me to try?”

The voice belong to the misfit moonlighting as a janitor for the past three weeks. You’ve seen Toji around — fixing lightbulbs, mopping floors — doing his 200 hours of community service for wrecking the drama department. He’s been watching you fail with the sophomores over and over again for the past hour, silently mopping.

“What?” you say, eyes flitting over to him as you brush your hair back, your tank top damp with sweat.

Toji shrugs as he drops his mop, tucking his hands into his baggy jeans, shoulders rolled back lazily.

“That jumpy thing,” he says lazily. Jumpy thing he says. Jumpy thing.

“Lift,” you correct as you drag your eyes up to his. “It’s called a lift.”

“Okay, yeah lift,” Toji says with an eye roll, tongue poking the inside of his cheek, a scar running down the corner of his lips. “I can do it for you. If you want.”

You almost scoff at that. This is absurd. He’s a misfit who you’ve seen busting a few moves, moving his body languidly, not the same disciplined pirouettes and plié’s you’ve been taught, and now he’s offering to lift you.

“No thanks.”

Toji shrugs at that again — does he know how to do anything but shrug? — and starts walking off. Your eyes flit over his form, 6’2, muscle under his tank top, big hands. Fuck it.

“Catch me.” You slowly make for him. Toji turns and his hands are on your waist, lifting you perfectly, and your breath catches. It feels secure and you swallow as he slowly lowers you to floor so close you can smell his cologne.

“You need a partner for practice for a bit right?” Toji murmurs, a brow arched lazily in question.