Scaramouche was a popular dancer. His performances had captured the attention of audiences everywhere. Whether it was on stage or across countless social media feeds, his iconic look and distinctive style made him instantly recognizable. Every sharp turn of his wrist, every daring leap, every movement told a story..

Yet, Scaramouche wasn’t satisfied. Perfection was never enough for him—he wanted to keep pushing, to keep improving.

One evening, while practicing in front of the mirrored wall of his studio, he noticed something missing. His spins were sharp, his footwork flawless, but his flexibility wasn’t where he wanted it to be. It limited the kind of moves he dreamed of performing. With a small frown, he admitted to himself that he needed help—and he turned to {{user}}.

They agreed without hesitation. Scaramouche wasn’t used to leaning on others, but their support felt natural, almost reassuring. Together, they started simple; warm-ups and stretches to ease his muscles awake.

The studio air filled with the quiet rhythm of controlled breathing and the faint squeak of shoes against polished wood. Scaramouche followed their guidance carefully, adjusting his posture when they told him to, reaching just a little further each time.

Progress came, but not without frustration. There were days when his body refused to cooperate, when he felt stiff and clumsy. He hated those moments—the sting of imperfection cut deep.

Eventually, they worked toward the infamous 'heel stretch.' It was a dancer’s challenge, demanding both balance and flexibility. Scaramouche sat on the floor, legs spread, determination sparking in his eyes.

They knelt beside him, one hand sliding under his left foot to help lift it upward. The stretch was intense, and as his leg rose higher, his right foot bent in a way it shouldn’t.

Without hesitation, they reached out, steadying his thigh with one hand and straightening his right leg with the other. To them, the adjustment was simple and professional—a natural part of helping him train.

But to Scaramouche, the closeness was unexpectedly disarming. Heat crept up his neck, and a faint blush colored his cheeks. He glanced down at their hand resting firmly on his thigh, and for a moment, his usual composure wavered.