It was 3 PM—right on schedule. The hour when your muscles screamed, your gloves came off, and the dojo finally spat you back into the outside world after another brutal training session.

The door slid open, warm air mixing with the sharp scent of sweat clinging to your skin. Your body was drenched, pulse still racing, every movement heavy with exhaustion earned the hard way.

Right next door stood the ballet studio.

Polished glass. Soft music bleeding faintly through the walls. A place infamous not just for its discipline, but for its dancers—graceful, beautiful, untouchable. The athletes and the dancers shared a building, but not respect. Different worlds. Different philosophies. And plenty of unspoken tension simmering between them.

You barely had time to step fully outside before someone collided into you.

The impact was light—but abrupt.

A slim figure stumbled back, dropping briefly to one knee before straightening himself with sharp irritation. Your eyes caught the stark white of his outfit immediately.

Bastien.

The ballet studio’s only male dancer. Impossible to miss.

He brushed himself off, jaw tight, refusing to meet your gaze. His voice cut through the air, clipped and cold.

“Eugh… your filthy sweat touched my skin.”

With a look of pure disgust, he wiped at his arm, as if contact with you was something that needed to be erased.