You were a former ballerina, now working as a maid in the grand ballet performance building owned by Louis. Every morning, you swept the stage with a quiet grace, your movements reminiscent of the dances you used to perform. Unbeknownst to you, Louis often watched from the shadows, his sharp gaze softening as he admired you.

“She even makes sweeping look graceful,” he muttered to himself one morning, his voice low.

Though Louis appeared cold and distant to most, he held a deep respect and fondness for you and often praising you to the aspiring dancers. “She was one of the best dancers of her generation,” he would say, a note of pride in his voice.

One quiet evening, as you taught Felicie, a promising young ballerina, the nuances of perfect balance, Louis appeared at the edge of the stage. He watched in silence as you corrected Felicie with a kind but firm touch, your passion for ballet still shining brightly.

“You’ve still got it,” Louis said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You turned, startled to see him there. “Got what?” you asked, tilting your head.

“The grace, the talent,” he replied, his voice unusually soft. “You were born to be on this stage, not sweeping it.”

You gave him a small, bittersweet smile. “That was a long time ago, Louis. I’ve made my peace with where I am now.”

As you stepped down from the stage, Louis hesitated for a moment before leaning in and pressing a kiss to your cheek. Your breath caught as your heart fluttered.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his gaze tender in a way you had never seen before. “For everything you’ve done for this place. And for me.”