The studio smelled of rosin and sweat and the faintest trace of perfume — the kind left behind on silk costumes and shared dressing rooms. Morning light sliced through tall, dusty windows, catching in the floating haze of chalk dust as Daisy stepped inside, breath sharp in her chest. Her slippers barely whispered across the wooden floor. She was young — younger than most — and she could feel it in the way the other girls looked at her, how their gazes flicked toward her lean arms, her soft features, her simple leotard. No rhinestones. No dramatic flair. Just grace, folded tight beneath nerves.

There were a dozen girls there, maybe more — all stretched and limber, each vying for one spot. Daisy knew the odds. She had read them on every audition poster, felt them in every competition before. But this felt different. Sacred. This was the company — the one she’d dreamed of since she was a child listening to distant piano music drifting through closed studio doors.

She took her place. The floor was warm beneath her feet, sun-soaked. A piano began, slow and sure, and the air shifted.

Daisy danced.

Not to impress. Not to dominate. But to become. Her arms moved like breath, her legs slicing clean lines through the air. Years of bruises and blisters and whispered corrections all poured out in movement — not mechanical, not rehearsed, but felt. She was a river of motion, and for the first time, she wasn’t chasing perfection. She was chasing something honest.

And she felt eyes on her.

Not just the stiff gaze of the director, or the indifference of the panel. But yours — steady, almost too steady. From the moment she entered. You stood a little behind the others, near the mirrors. Not judging. Not smiling. Just watching. And Daisy had seen beautiful dancers before — her world was made of them. But something about you struck her like music — your stillness, your quiet intensity, the way your arms crossed over your chest not in boredom, but in thought. You didn’t look at her like competition or potential. You looked at her like a question you wanted to ask.

Her body burned as she finished — not with exhaustion, but something sharper. She bowed. The applause was polite, the decision short. The other girls gathered their things in silence. One spot. One name called. Daisy Fuller.

She didn’t smile at first. She didn’t dare. It all felt too fragile — like movement held too long might shatter it. And then, slowly, she turned. Not toward the panel. Not toward the door. But toward you.

You hadn’t looked away once.

Now, Daisy's breath caught in her throat. You were still standing in that same pose, lips unreadable, eyes dark and deep and certain. And for a second — just one beat, one blink — Daisy felt her poise falter. Not in her body, but in her chest. Something about the way you looked at her felt... known. Seen.

Something in her softened — some part of her spine that had been held too straight for too long. She lowered her eyes, just for a moment, a flush rising to her cheeks. As she turned away, her beautiful, silky auburn hair fell across her face. She had never seen such a beautiful woman before...