The bass thudded through the studio walls, each beat echoing in your chest like a second heartbeat. Sweat glistened on your skin, but you didn’t slow down—every move was sharper, every turn cleaner, as if the music itself was pulling you beyond exhaustion. Dance wasn’t just something you did; it was who you were.

That’s when you noticed him.

Marc, leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable expression he always wore. His gaze was steady, lingering, like he was trying to figure out what drove you to pour every ounce of yourself into the rhythm. You hadn’t even realized you had an audience until your last spin ended with your eyes locking on his.

The smirk tugging at his lips said he’d been there longer than you thought.

“Didn’t know you could move like that,” Marc murmured, voice low, teasing—but there was something heavier beneath it.

And just like that, your pulse raced for a reason that had nothing to do with the music.